


ticking like a clock on your wrist

by smolarmstrong



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, First Meeting, M/M, yknow who doesn’t love a good soulmate au boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 12:01:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16534175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolarmstrong/pseuds/smolarmstrong
Summary: Everyone’s got a clock, John’s has just never ticked.





	ticking like a clock on your wrist

**Author's Note:**

> hhhhh i have no idea why im so self conscious about my writing as of late but yeah, I’m still trying to learn how to write everyone, sorry if it’s bad :’^)
> 
> so yeah, a good ol classic soulmate au, that good shit
> 
> hope n’yall enjoy

John’s got a tattoo. A tattoo like everyone else in the whole bloody world. A tattoo that tells you how much time you’ve spent with your soulmate.

It’s a pretty arbitrary system, John would have to say. Why should it even matter how long he’s been around his soulmate? Maybe it won’t even count, what a joke that would be. His clock’s been at zero for as long as he can remember.

Until he checks it after that damn festival. One hour, thirteen minutes, and two seconds. 1:13:02. And it’s stopped, exactly like that.

John now truthfully hates this stupid time based system. There were tens of hundreds of people at that festival, who did he see for exactly one hour, thirteen minutes, and two seconds? And why should he even care?

Man, does he really care. He’s never cared about it before, but now he’s going back to that church every Sunday even though he doesn’t even practice, waiting for the seconds to tick back up.

He stays after for the receptions, even makes side dishes and forgets the tupper-wares (to his aunt’s anger), just walking around, talking to all the birds flying around, giggling and gossiping about religion drama that he doesn’t really get.

But his numbers don’t seem to tick up, and John’s thinking he should just go back to not caring and living his regular, normal, one hour, thirteen minute, and two second life.

But then there’s another festival, a winter one, where there’s laughing and merrying and a few choir boys mumbling hymns and psalms up on the church’s old stage. And of course John goes, because sometimes he’s a dreamer and sometimes he kind of wants more than he has, because sometimes he’s selfish like that but it doesn’t matter, because there’s now a boy hopping up on stage with a guitar in his hand and his hair all slicked up in a silly looking Elvis up-do that John wishes he had.

The boy takes a seat up on stage and fiddles with the old, crusty microphone on its rusty stand. “Hullo, my name’s Paul Mah-Cartney, and I’m gonna play a couple of songs for ya,” the boy speaks with a grin on his lips, fiddling with the guitar to fit it right on his lap. “I hope ya like.”

Even with the low murmur of the crowd speaking over the lyrics, John can hear. He remembers this guy, he sat and listened to him play last time. His voice reminds John of some folk records he would listen to with his auntie, kind of soft spoken and calm. His fingers dance down the frets like a waltz, and John knows his way around a guitar. This kid was good.

And then John looks down, and he sees something moving on his wrist. Ticking. His heart jumps to his throat, and he pulls back his jacket sleeve. The tattoo, the timer, the clock - it’s moving. It’s counting up.

John pinches himself and makes sure he’s not asleep. He isn’t.

He keeps his eyes glued to the boy on stage, watches his singing drift through the air, watches his long fingers dig into the strings as he plays through songs that John can’t even comprehend - they’re like poetry, telling a story through each voice inflection.

The song ends and there’s a soft roll of applause. This boy - Paul - sees someone he knows in the crowd, maybe a friend or something, and gives a big smile and a wave. John can’t believe his eyes, because they’re looking right at this boys wrist, and it’s counting up, just like his is. Same numbers. Paul doesn’t even seem to notice, and John’s writhing in his seat, almost crying in excitement because he’s got it, he’s found him and this boy doesn’t even know what he’s in store for.

John stays for Paul’s set, which lasts around an hour, filled with covers and small songs the boy seems to have written himself. It makes John’s heart flutter, and he doesn’t even understand why, but it feels good. It feels happy and complete.

Paul takes his bow and slings his guitar over his shoulder, making his way down to mingle with the crowd. John is on him in a heart beat, sticking out his sweaty palm in a greeting. “Hey, uh, it’s um, you did a great show up there. Nice singin’ and such,” John speaks fast, looking at their wrists synchronize perfectly as they locked together.

“Ah, that was nothin’. Just some blabberin into the mic, I’m no Elvis or nothin’,” the boy smiles wide and shook back, igniting John’s stomach in a fit of flies.

John has to shake his head loose before he talks again. “I’m ah, I’m John. John Lennon. I play some guitar too.”

“It’s real nice to meet ya John. I’m Paul, as you prolly heard,” the boy giggles and John can’t fathom how he’s lived his life as long as he has and not have known Paul. It feels like John should know Paul’s entire life story, from the beginning to now to his whole future. “You play guitar? D’ya write anything?”

“Oh, little bits. Tiny things, here and there,” John has just now realized that he’s still holding and slowly shaking Paul’s hand, and the boy hasn’t let go, hasn’t moved an inch. “We should, uh, we should play together sometime. I could learn a think or two about writing from you.”

“Oh, really? That’d be-That’d be great! I don’t get to play with a whole lotta people, honestly,” Paul grips his guitar strap tight, holding onto John’s hand just a second longer.

“Yeah, I think we’ve got a lot to catch up on,” John gives Paul’s hand a quick squeeze before pulling out a marker and writing his phone number down, right on Paul’s palm, right above his still ticking clock.


End file.
